


Devil's Advocate

by cashflochlo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anxious GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Body Image, Bottom GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay is an artist, Cute GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Depression, Dream is an exchange student, Eating Disorders, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Flustered GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), George isnt a streamer in this but dream is so i hope that makes sense, Hurt GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Minecraft, Mutual Pining, My First AO3 Post, Pining, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, dreamnotfound, the title is a song by the neighborhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashflochlo/pseuds/cashflochlo
Summary: The drawing was of George. It had to be George. The features of his face were captured in such a meticulous way that mirrored his own face exactly. The shadow under his eyes was enunciated and the shape of his brow was identical to his own. The drawing wasn’t only remarkable for its accuracy to his own face because George was also crying, violently. His index finger lay resting along his quivering upper lip. Beside his face read his name, printed in small messy letters but undoubtedly reading: George.---George and Dream meet under unusual circumstances during university--George crying on a bus bench and Dream new to the UK completely. Each harbor their own secret struggles they find difficult to share.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	1. So If I Seem Shy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for checking this out, I'm not too proud of this work but I wanted to put it out for critique and practice. This is my first post on AO3.  
> Keep in mind:  
> TW for eating disorders, body image issues, anxiety, panic attacks, and depression  
> You are loved <3!

George had grown to be content living a mundane lifestyle and he came to rely on the unequivocal assurance of routine, he hadn’t really ever stopped to notice how dull his life had become, though. He didn’t leave his apartment often, seeing as he wasn’t invited to many places. George suspected that his few friends found him rather boring and uninteresting-- he thought of himself that way too, after all. Besides, he was content being somewhat alone. 

What did concern him was the extent that his controlling nature had reached. Today, George had avoided all of his meals and only remained sustained through small snacks and liquid meal-replacements. As a child, he had always been a “picky” eater. However, he had grown to realize that it had more to do with his deep-rooted perfectionism seeping its way into every aspect of his life, not just fussy etiquette; he assumed he had developed some sort of restrictive eating disorder. Yet again, another identical day had passed and he acknowledged that he should take more care of himself, he knew that it was growing to inhibit his life everyday. He hadn’t felt like himself in forever and he certainly didn’t look like it either. He was so  _ tired. _ In the end, it was almost definitive to George that he knew that he’d continue his cycle of restricting himself tomorrow anyways. Of many things, but mostly satisfaction.

_ It was easier this way. _

The alarm clock resting on George’s dresser was the only light in his room during the late night, it kept his eyes glued to the red numbers. The colon separating the digits blinked in a persistent pattern which was grounding from his irksome thoughts. Eventually, the worries about his bad habits subsided and his rising heart rate began to drop. He hadn’t noticed how clammy his body had gotten during his momentary panic. Ultimately, he drifted off to sleep in little time at all.

-=+=-

George’s eyes opened to the sight of his alarm clock once again. But it was more irritating now. The numbers were no longer comforting, just plain angry. His mouth tasted somewhat sour and dry. George’s lips were painfully chapped. He felt immediately disgusted with himself this morning.

His body laid in bed for many minutes-- maybe five or ten. He didn’t move from where he was on the bed but instead curled up into himself slightly. His bed was messy and his achromatic white comforter had collected itself adjacent to him on the bed. The sheets he slept on hadn’t been changed in likely two or more weeks, the sudden thought of that did more than displease George but caused a growing nauseating feeling to cultivate in his gut.

_ What the hell is wrong with me.. _

George arose from his mattress and stumbled his way to the en suite bathroom which he kept much more tidy than his bed. 

He turned his shower on whilst he undressed, stalling for the water to heat up before showering. George couldn’t help but study himself in the mirror like usual. 

_ I need to get out more,  _ he thought whilst recognizing his doughlike skin. His face appeared almost bloodless. The illusion of his brown eyes being sunken into his skull was enunciated by the cadaverous shadows lining his lower lids. George was progressively growing thinner which he didn’t notice about himself or if he did, it didn’t bother him much. He laid a hand across his stomach which felt icey against his core which was still warm from sleep. The nauseating feeling was still palpitating in his empty stomach. He didn’t think he looked very healthy and he felt unwell.

Contrarily, his face was cleanly shaven and his skin remained clear. He had a nice haircut, his dark hair was neat on his head. He didn’t look  _ that  _ bad. Just.. tired. Maybe overworked.

George was drawn from his thoughts as the mirror grew blurry due to the steam coating the mirror that he was previously so fixated on. The beads of water collected and slithered down the reflection of himself. He turned and stepped in the hot water. The water stung his skin. He took in a sharp breath, immediately turning down the temperature.

He showered quickly, then continued his morning as usual. But after working for a few hours at his desk, not much of his schoolwork was completed. He wasn’t exhausted, in fact, he had rested well. Only, he had grown disinterested in the topics he needed to study; all of his attention trailed back to his thoughts he procured the previous night.

_ Something needs to change. I don’t want to be like this.  _

George was surprised by this intrusive thought. He had always been alright within his comfort zone but he did understand why a deeper part of him desired change. He thought that university would be a place for him to grow into a more complex person and he had already been there for over a year with no drastic character development or anything of that sort. For a few minutes, George sat twirling in his desk chair, his legs hugged to his chest whilst he pondered on what to do. If someone had seen him, his features would’ve revealed him to be pensive. His eyes were deep in thought and his lips were pressed together. He didn’t really know what it was he wanted. Maybe acceptance, passion, or joy. Whatever it was, he couldn’t pin his finger on it. He just wanted to feel something more.

George stepped away from his desk, grabbing a backpack resting on the floor. He emptied a few textbooks and notebooks. He placed a new novel he ordered online a few weeks ago into the bag. He hadn’t gotten around to starting it yet. George put a few other items in the various pockets the backpack contained like a laptop, water bottle, his phone, keys, and some spending money.

_ You’re just going out for coffee, it’s not a big deal. _

George put on a pair of new shoes that he grabbed off of his shoe rack. All of his shoes were kept super clean. They paired well with the outfit he had on, black jeans that were quite oversized and a purple crewneck that concealed his thin figure. He checked himself out in the mirror in his entryway, smiling slightly. He was proud of the progress he’d made already today by deciding to go out. His eyes looked a little more vivid than before. It was an auspicious moment for him, he felt stimulated to a greater energy and the rotten feelings that had been beleaguing his insides finally receded.

The bag was now hung over his frame and he left his apartment with newfound ardor. He decided to take the bus around his city to find a nice place to get some coffee, he wasn’t very hungry. The bus wasn’t too crowded and he only rode for a few blocks. After the bus breaked at its systematic stop, George exited out onto the street where the air was less stuffy.

George walked a few blocks trying to find anywhere he could stop. He had barely gone out in the time he had lived here for school and didn’t have close friends he could ask for directions. Eventually, he turned the corner of the sidewalk and a sign protruded from a building stating:  _ Small Batch Coffee Roasters _ . It was adorable.

The building was open, most of the windows and doors laid ajar. They were all lined with an ashy grey-green coloured paint on the window frame. The exterior was the same stone that all of the buildings on the street were constructed with. Hanging plants swayed above the doors and windows of the cozy shop, he couldn’t tell for certain but they appeared to contain batches of white, purple, and violet flowers. His lips turned upwards, the simplicity in the building design enticed him inside. The inside reflected the atmosphere of the exterior, creating a cohesive space of clarity. 

George stepped up to the counter which encased breakfast sweets that were visible through the glass: chocolate twisted flaking croissants, sweet potato breads, cinnamon rolls that were scattered with berries and glazed with a sweet syrup, marbled chocolate cake rolls, sandwiches on countless varieties of bread, and much more. Each food item had printed labels, about half of them being vegan. 

“Hello, sir, welcome! Go ahead and order when you’re ready,” the woman behind the counter looked around his age, she probably went to school here as well. She spoke with a certain vivacity that made George anxious and conscious of his insecurities. He hooked his thumbs on the straps of his bag, tugging a little in efforts to quiet his uneasiness.

“Oh, um well... I’d just like a flat white,” he paused, looking down at the food. He couldn’t say anything for a moment, it was too much for him to order something else.  _ It’s too much. _ “Yeah, that’s all, please.” He looked up and gave her a polite smile.

“Alright, sounds good! I’ll bring it to your table,” she smiled back to him.

George decided on a table which was affixed between a set of open french windows. It adjoined the busy outside street with the much more reposed indoor ambience. He placed his bag on the floor near his feet. He had previously planned to read his new book but he was no longer compelled to start it. He took his phone from his pocket instead, which lit up to no new notifications. 

His phone wasn’t as absorbing as usual and his mind wandered back to the counter, packed with sweets. He didn’t crave the sweets or the sandwiches but rather the notion of having any kind of appetite. He felt embarrassed that the idea of eating  _ anything  _ caused him so much internal conflict. 

It was absolutely humiliating, he was an adult.

The waitress stopped by his table, leaving his cup of coffee in front of him. The ceramic cup was filled with small bubbles of microfoam, embodying the image of a frothy white heart attop the hot aromatic coffee. 

“I also brought you this!” The barista beamed, she placed a freshly warmed danish next to his coffee, “It’s on me, I hope you enjoy.” 

“Thank you,” George couldn’t look up at her to thank her, though. His heart dropped to his stomach and the painful ache in his gut returned. He thought he had been doing good today, he had been happy to leave his apartment and make progress. A surge of shame rose over him, the room began to blur around him. The barista discerned a sudden change in the male’s composure but was somewhat offended with his reaction. She left the table and returned to help a new customer.

George sat and stared at the food on his table for several minutes. He was frozen in time and his body had become stiff in the chair. His lungs were breathless as his heart skipped a beat, his pulse throbbing in his neck. Each sensation he felt delivered a shock wave of panic through him. He began to lose most of his control over his emotions, he could no longer hear the voices on the street or the conversations between groups of friends in the coffee shop. All he could think about was the tremendously real pastry on the table, so small yet it was generating an insurmountable deal of pain. It hurt.

George’s hands were trembling and disturbingly heavy to move. He didn’t reach for the coffee or the food, instead, for his bag. He pulled out his wallet and placed a 5 pound note tucked under the untouched food. 

_ God, you’re pathetic. Why did you even go out?! _

George abruptly left the cafe, he couldn’t be in public anymore. His routine is what grounded him and kept him sane. He had been doing okay, he had been  _ content _ . He raced down the sidewalk urgently. His bag bouncing on his fragile body. George began to lose himself, his eyes had become brimmed with tears. He no longer tried to conceal them and they outpoured from his eyes, cascading down his cheek, leaving his face along his jaw. He hated the feeling of the wet tears sticking on his skin. As he walked, he would wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt and sporadically let out a sob that would rise from deep in his chest. He tried to keep his staggering breath quiet as not to attract attention.

_ I just need to get home. I just have to ride the bus and I can go home. I want to go home. _

Only a few people on the pavement turned their heads to look at George crying, they weren’t concerned. George’s steps faltered but he finally reached the bus stop he had arrived here at. He sat down on a bench to wait, he hated how open and bright it was during the early afternoon. He placed his legs tucked against his chest for comfort. George kept his head down and tried to calm down his breaths. He was deep in his panic now, he was practically heaving as he anticipated the arrival of his bus. George was consumed by his contemptment towards himself, he couldn’t hang on. 

“Hey.. are you okay? Are you hurt?” A figure placed his hand lightly on the shoulder of George. His voice was comforting yet intimidating to him in his vulnerable state. He didn’t know how to react. His head turned sharply to look at the large hand resting next to him. Strangely, he wasn’t scared, he hadn’t even seen the face of the man but his presence made George want to lean into him; he wanted to be held. 

“I-I’m alright, I-I’m sor-sorry,” George stammered in between his choking breaths. He meant to say more to him, something like:  _ I’m alright, I don’t need anything. _

“You don’t seem okay..” George glanced at the man now after pulling his head away from his body. The individual was very tall, he was well built but not bulky. His hair was a soft wave of a coppery-blonde. Freckles stippled across his nose and cheeks. His green eyes showed concern for George as well as his lips which were frowned in worry. 

“No, I-I-,” George couldn’t say anything more. He gasped for air and his vision became obscured from the tears that kept accumulating. The man sat down alongside George on the bench and turned to face him.

“Can you tell me what your name is? I’m Clay, I’ve got you.” Clay planted one of his hands on George’s side and the other on his face, turning George's puffed face to look at him.

“I’m G-George,” he already felt calmer with Clay’s hand on his cheek. 

“Okay, George. Breathe with me, please,” Clay held eye contact with George whilst slowly taking in deep breaths. George’s breaths continued to remain broken but much more steady than before. Clay rubbed his thumb slowly across the skin under George’s eyes, erasing the dampness. The interaction was insanely intimate but the two weren’t uncomfortable. George  _ needed _ this. It was so relieving that someone cared enough to stop. He hadn’t felt this loved before in a long time-- he found it pathetic that these feelings came from a stranger he’d been sitting with for a few moments. “Do you need me to call anybody?”

“No,” George choked on the bitter word, he didn’t have anyone he could call, even if he wanted to. “I-I- don’t, I- can’t-”

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay. Promise, promise,” Clay hummed in a low tone. He continued holding the boy on the bench who was trembling under his hands. He didn’t understand why he was so compelled to console him, to Clay, he just seemed so desperate.

The two of them sat there for a considerable period of time. George had put the weight of his head gently against his palm which was cool to his skin.

“T-thank you,” George looked distraught. His eyes were bloodshot but had finally ceased crying moments ago, “You didn’t need to help me, Clay.”

_ He’s so hot... wait, what? _

“Oh come on now, why wouldn’t I?” The rich tone of his voice had deepened and he took his hand off of George’s cheek after a moment of silence. 

_ Maybe it’s worth it, that I left the house today. _

George smiled in response, not out of obligation. He felt electricity on his cheek where his hand had been. Clay had made him actually smile, he seemed so genuine. 

“Could.. Could you ride the bus with me?” The question fell out of his mouth, he didn’t envision the inquiry sounding so despondent and pathetic. “Well, nevermind-”

“No! Of course I can, George.” George was encouraged by these words, but he was conflicted. Clay had no reason to be acting so amicable towards him. There was no point in befriending someone he didn’t know. Breaking down in front of someone doesn’t leave the ideal lasting impression. Despite George collecting himself, he remained easily fracturable. Susceptible to the darkest of his thoughts in which he felt permanently grounded to. He wouldn’t be able to hide from Clay what had caused such a deleterious influence to his well-being. Clay would ask too many questions, and care too much. It wasn’t something he could manage, he had enough on his plate.

_ But maybe I need someone to help  _ **_me_ ** _ manage...  _

“I’m coming with you. You don’t have to tell me what happened if it’s not what you want.” Clay had decided for George. His words reassured him that he wouldn’t push him to do more he could handle. It wouldn’t be anything more than company. 

“Well, alright.”

The two of them waited for minutes in silence, George’s eyes became glazed over and the washed-out colour of his face restored itself. Clay kept his gaze fixated on the boy, he ached to soothe whatever hurt George  _ this  _ bad. He took note of his thin figure and gaunty face. He wondered if he was sick or abused at his home. Clay didn’t feel that he had the right to do more for him than he already had. The atmosphere between them allowed them to remain quiet, they were each enervated by their thoughts which reflected upon how they should rationalize what happened. They seemed to not understand what the other was thinking but they felt fulfilled remaining unspeaking in one another’s presence.

_ Why does it have to matter this much? It was just a pastry. I thought I had control.. but this feels like obsession. _

-=+=-

George found himself laying in bed once again, his body ached more than before and his mind harbored new worries. He had felt as if Clay’s touch had pulled something out of him. George couldn’t tell if he was mistaking his utter loneliness for something more. He couldn’t sleep that night either, George found himself tormented by his solitude unlike the comfort he would usually find when he was alone. 

_ The food on the table. His shaking hands. The shudder of his body with his breath. But Clay... The hand on his cheek. “It’s gonna be okay. Promise, promise...”  _

It tore through his mind over and over again. He felt weak and frail; totally succumbed to his desire to see the boy again. He still hadn’t had a bite to eat that day and it was causing an all-consuming migraine. 

George pulled on his hair in an attempt to create new pain to distract from the discomfort which had swept over him. Except his hands pulled away from his scalp with fibers of his own hair in between each of his fingers. 

“What the hell…?” George’s forehead creased. He wasn’t certain if the uprooted hair had been from his malnourishment or the force of his tugging. Either way, it was deeply unsettling. 

He cried again for the second time that day, this time sending him over the cliff of exhaustion and into sleep for a short time. That night marked the end of his weekend, he’d have to wake up in only a few short hours to get ready for his classes. 

_ 1:26 _

_ 2:45 _

_ 3:53 _

George was hungry-- there was no doubt about it. He couldn’t get himself up to get something to eat, he figured that he could last until breakfast. He scanned his eyes around the room to try to distract him. He had created the habit of using his senses to ground himself, something his mother would make him do when he was really little in an attempt to calm down. Five things he could see, four he could feel, three he could hear, two he could smell, and one thing he tasted.

Five--  _ I can see my alarm clock flickering beside me. I can see the tiny lights of my computer blinking in the dark under my desk. I can see my crumpled sweatshirt that I wore yesterday, it is wrinkled because of how much I cried on it. I can see the rapid moving blades on my ceiling fan, spinning endlessly. I can see the coffee mug on my desk from when I was working yesterday morning. Four-- I can feel my warm bed sheets, I’m definitely washing them tomorrow. I can feel the cold air from my fan on my feet that are sticking out the side of my bed. I can feel my stomach… It hurts really really bad. I can feel a papercut in between the fingers on my left hand. I think it was from when I was working in the morning. Three-- I can hear cars on the street, few in number, but they sound fairly loud when they pass by. I can hear doors shutting across the hall or somewhere downstairs. I can hear people coming home from some get-together.. people are laughing and talking loudly, saying goodnight. I can make out names: Nick and Karl seem to be the loudest of the bunch. Two-- I can smell my shampoo when I turn in the bed, it's worn off onto my pillowcase. The scent is a little woody, but mostly strong of jasmine and honeysuckle. I can’t really smell anything else, nothing extremely fragrant or foul. One-- I can taste my toothpaste, it isn’t very strong anymore but it’s still nice.  _

_ 4:17 _

_ 4:44 _

_ 5:31 _

George murmured into his pillow out of pain. His stomach had formed a second pulse that twisted and churned inside of him. The more he concentrated on trying to sleep, it became more and more difficult. The bed was spinning and falling below him. It felt as if someone had crawled inside of his skin and shredded all of his organs with a rusty knife. It was unbearable.

“Make it  _ stop _ !” He whined into his pillow, biting into it. He knew he needed to eat or drink something _.  _ He had never gone such a long time without doing so, but it was almost worth it not to; he was reminded of the embarrassment and panic he experienced in the cafe. 

_ I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t do anything. Just eat something. It’s pathetic that you can’t even take care of yourself, you don’t have any control.  _

The pillow he had been crushing was thrown to the ground. George stood up suddenly, his sight became dark and the rush of movement pierced his skull. He ignored it, though. Promptly, he walked to his kitchenette, but his body was stiff and achy. Opening the fridge, he browsed his shelves for something that would satisfy him enough to sleep.

George settled on a single serving of greek yogurt. It looked disgusting but he knew it would be easy to swallow and it was the best option to hold him over for the morning. He drifted over to his bed and sat on the side, taking little bites with his spoon. It felt really good to appease his body’s pain and he finished it in little time. George felt proud of himself for a short few minutes. He fell back onto his mattress, trying to get an hour of rest before he’d get up.

The hour felt like seconds. He slept through it, but it wasn’t enough to make him well-rested. George was weak and didn’t know if he could even stay awake for a whole day at school. His morning was rushed, but he stuck to his routine of showering, dressing, and making himself a coffee. George was still hungry and figured he could try to eat something more. He’d _ try _ . He popped a slice of bread in his toaster as he sipped his coffee. He leaned his backside against his counter in a relaxed manner with his eyes closed. He knew that everything he learned in class today wouldn’t retain in his mind because he was so drowsy and the space he had in his head would be hyper-focused on his hunger during the day.

The toaster popped directly behind him, startling him back to consciousness. He let out a sigh and picked his toast up. George slipped on a pair of shoes by the door and grabbed the bag he had packed for class whilst eating what else of his breakfast he could finish. 

George’s commute to school was dark, the sun was only rising by the time he was seated on the bus. The frigid late-September air caused the windows on the city bus to cloud over and morning sun gleamed through the foggy glass. Blurry scenery of the city streets whizzed by and George winced at the harsh glare that peeked around buildings and cars. He zoned out and waited patiently for the city bus to arrive at his university.

George’s first class of the day was a lecture for his statistics class. Within his first few weeks of the term, he had discovered that his statistics professor was his  _ least  _ favorite. His deep academic tone vibrated George’s skull and bored him to death. George had decided he’d rather read more of the textbook to compensate for ignoring parts of the in-person lectures. 

“We are beginning today’s session with a list of statistical terms that we will be using to discuss observational studies as well as experimental investigations. Later in the hour, I’ll go over covariates in more depth seeing as so many of you had questions during office hours last week. We are beginning with baselines; every experiment has a temporal component and the baseline is the temporal origin or…” 

George had settled into his seat in the lecture hall and his notebook laid open; the titled pages of uncompleted notes on his paper were daringly empty. Other students next to him scrawled down every spoken word onto their pages in unusually small or large fonts. Some typed or recorded the lecture on their laptops. It was enough for George to come to class and sit quietly and listen; the consequences of his low effort would be something he’d accept for himself. He leaned back in his chair and spent the time staring at the backs of heads or spying on the computer screens of his peers. 

“... so the mathematical population is the index set on which the response is defined as a stochastic process. Often, the index set is made sufficiently large in order to contain every conceivable outcome...”

George had noticed a boy seated a row in front of him slightly to the right. He had a laptop open that was using a voice-to-text feature to write the lecture in real time. But he wasn’t paying any more attention than George was. He was occupied sketching finely detailed images of faces across blue-lined paper in front of him. One face was surrounded by tiny words that looked like a poem. Its lips were parted almost as if the words around him had fallen from his lips. Another figure on the paper was facing away, only his side profile and neck were etched onto the page; veins and imperfections brought life into the picture. George admired how detailed the drawings were-- he had never seen something so beautifully made with effortless talent. The boy stopped the movement of his pencil and started flipping the pages in his notebook quickly in search of something. More faces and words turned over one another with the movement of the paper. He stopped on a drawing. A drawing so haunting that George choked on the breath in his lungs. His face flushed in astonishment and he couldn’t refrain from awkwardly coughing to release the tense feeling that had formed in his throat.

“Are you good over there?” The professor in the center of the hall had turned to face him. While George’s uncompleted notes weren’t visible from the distance, he was sure his loud, sudden cough had disrupted his lesson and caused him to become cross. 

George nodded and the professor glared at him for a moment but continued the lecture. A few of his peers turned their heads to look at George in curiosity. Thankfully, the boy with the intricate drawings hadn’t paid George any attention-- he could continue to adore his work.

The drawing was of George. It  _ had  _ to be George. The features of his face were captured in such a meticulous way that mirrored his own face exactly. The shadow under his eyes was enunciated and the shape of his brow was identical to his own. The drawing wasn’t only remarkable for its accuracy to his own face because George was violently crying. His hands were drawn masking parts of his face, weakly covering his pained expression. George’s eyes were looking up at the artist, the whites of his eyes visible along the bottom of his iris yet spilling with tears. One of George’s hands was placed on the right side of his face with the pads of his fingers lightly pressed along his cheek. The other with his index finger resting along his quivering upper lip. Next to his face lay his name, printed in small messy letters but undoubtedly reading:  _ George _

It clicked in George’s mind that the boy must be Clay, who had comforted him and rode with him home on the bus. 

_ Why would he draw me...? I need to talk to him.  _

George was anxious for the remainder of the lecture. He bit at his cuticles and stayed hyperfocused on the small lines and details that Clay added to his face. The gleam in his pupils, shading of his hair over his forehead, the crease between his brow, and the outlines of the wet tears that had once dotted his face.

“Keep in mind that every treatment effect in these notes is modelled as a group action on probability distributions, which is not necessarily the case for covariate effects. So with that said, please complete all exercises for sections one and two and I will see you again on Wednesday.”

George packed all of his belongings into his bag quickly so he could stop Clay before he left-- he had so many questions. George walked behind a few other students out of the class, he spotted Clay walking a few yards in front of him looking down at his phone screen.

“Clay!” George had sped up his pace and reached out to grab his arm. 

“George?” Clay’s voice contained a questioning tone and his head whipped around to face the boy, “Oh, hey, I guess I didn’t notice you were in my class!” His eyes grew wide in response to seeing George. 

“Yeah, I was surprised to see you,” he paused, he wasn’t sure of how to bring up what he had seen in Clay’s notebook, “I noticed you were uh, voice-typing the lecture. That was a really smart idea, could you send it to me?” George’s eyes hovered over the notebook in Clay’s left hand. It’s cover was a dull yellow.  _ I could just ask him… _

“Of course, I can send it to you…” Clay’s voice trailed off, he noticed George hadn’t  _ really  _ approached him in order to get help with the class, “Give me your number then.”

“What?” George looked back up at Clay, who looked indifferent to the conversation. The two of them had stepped aside from the crowd and were talking along the wall as other students passed by.

“What do you mean? If you want the notes I need your number, George,” Clay’s expression changed. He was smirking at George a little bit, whose cheeks had begun to turn a hot red.

“I- Obviously, sorry,” George proceeded to type his number into the phone Clay handed him. Once he had filled out the contact he gave the phone back.

“I’ll send it to you later, it’s nice to see you doing better than you were.. yesterday,” Clay remarked. He smiled sympathetically.

“Oh,” George bit the inside of his cheek, “I really appreciated that you were there.”

“Not a problem, I just hope that you’re okay,” Clay hesitated, “You deserve to feel more happiness than that, or at least a little less pain.”

George blushed, “You don’t even know me,” his voice was quiet, signifying a certain level of embarrassment, “I never even told you what happened.”

“I could know you, though,” Clay reached out to touch George’s arm, gently clasping his hand around his bicep in an attempt to reassure him, “and I’d listen if you told me what happened.”

“Uh- I mean-” George couldn’t find the right words.

“Come to lunch with me some time, George. Whenever you’re free, of course. I just feel like we deserve to get to know each other differently.”

“Definitely, we should,” George replied. Something about Clay’s invitation instantly convinced George that he should go. It was worth the pain that would come from lying about what was really destroying him. It felt easy with him.

“Okay, well, bye, George!” Clay walked away from George leaving him to reflect on what was to come. He stood in the hall both flustered and extremely nervous before moving on.

George spent his morning distracted, he was focused on the possibilities that would result from this new ‘relationship’. Clay confused him more than anyone ever had, he was so intimate in a way that wasn’t sensual or unnatural. He was gentle towards George and left him wanting.. something more.

He received a text from Clay around noon that day with a link to Clay’s lecture notes and short message:  _ Hey, let me know what day you’re free to hang out :) _

For the remainder of his classes, he simply recorded what assignments he needed to complete and withdrew his attentiveness to the lessons. He scrutinized every possible outcome of the meet-up, but his mind perpetually returned to a singular question that gnawed at him:

_ What if he notices that I won’t eat?  _

For starters, it was a silly question, who  _ couldn’t  _ notice that he doesn’t eat? He noticed the glances sent his way whilst walking across his campus, in hallways, during class. They weren’t consistently malicious-- rather rooted in a place of natural curiosity or concern. However, each glace still panged at his chest and drops of shame slithered their way into his heart. After all,  _ he  _ did this to himself, he had reason to feel ashamed. He looked sick.

The day passed quickly and he was able to return home where he could relax for the rest of his day and complete his work on his own time.

George returned a text a few hours after Clay, he wasn’t sure how to respond to the seemingly simple inquiry.

_ How about wednesday, lunchtime? I’m free whenever tho _

He stared at the words for too long, and added a simple ‘ _ :) _ ’ to the end, in an attempt to seem friendlier. After the message was delivered, typing bubbles materialized almost immediately and continuously bounced on the screen for a minute or two. They suddenly dissolved and no message was sent. George threw his phone behind him, onto his bed, landing with a gentle sound upon collision. He ran a hand through his hair whilst releasing a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. He wasn’t panicking, he was merely frustrated that this interaction was so damn  _ hard. _

_ It’s not even a big deal. He’ll answer later, probably, or he’s busy. _

As George began to move on from his feelings of bitterness, his phone rang. He whipped around in the office chair he was seated in and reached for the phone he had so carelessly tossed. It was Clay.

“H-hello?” George cleared his throat, his last conversation had been with the same person many hours ago and his voice was somewhat hoarse. 

“Hi, George. I hope it’s okay I called, I just had a lot to talk about, I guess,”  _ Uh oh.  _

“Yeah, I mean, like, I’m not busy right now anyways,” he bit the inside of his cheek and sat back down in the desk chair.

“I don’t really know you so I wanted to ask what sort of food you wanted to get on Wednesday? I haven’t been able to try out many restaurants yet in the UK either so…” Clay trailed off, waiting for George to fill the silence.

“Oh, well I don’t eat out much,”  _ truth,  _ “I just sort of eat at home most of the time,”  _ lie _ , “You can pick some place that you want to try. Are you new to the UK or something?” 

“Yeah, I’m here doing a study abroad program for the semester, I’ve only been here for a couple weeks so far.”  _ That makes sense, hence the accent. _

“That’s cool! I hope you like it here,” he paused, “What else did you need to ask? I might need to go soon.” George didn’t have any obligations to attend to, he was just nervous and the conversation seemed a little boring.

“Oh that’s alright, we can talk Wednesday, obviously. How about I’ll just pick out a place to eat and send you the info over text? I don’t have any other morning classes after statistics, so we could leave from there if you wanted.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, me neither.”

“Okay. Bye, George, sorry if I bothered you. Text me if you need anything at all” Clay’s tone indicated that he was avoiding something more that he wanted to say, tiptoeing around whatever it was.

“It’s all good, bye, Clay.”

The call had been short and almost bafflingly pointless. All George had done was avoid his question about the food. On the other hand, he did learn that Clay would only be at his school for the semester. This left open many possibilities, he could befriend Clay without worrying too much about getting too attached, seeing that he would leave in a matter of months to return to America. 

George ended the day absolutely exhausted, his head hurt, too. 

Only two days until he could see Clay again. 


	2. It's 'Cause You Seem Shiesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Dream go on their "date" to the pier! : )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Thank you so so so much to everyone who has left kudos, comments, bookmarks, or even just read this!! It's so crazy to me that this has gotten any attention at all haha.   
> I meant to update this much sooner but I've been super busy with school and some big things have been happening in my personal life, this has been a great distraction from it all though! So updates will ~probably~ continue to be slow.  
> This chapter is pretty fluffy so I hope you enjoy that hehe. (plus a lil sapnap content)  
> I love you all, hope you are healthy and safe <3

The night and day following the phone call passed quickly; George ate little and completed little of his work. The image of Clay’s drawing persistently reappeared in his mind time and time again. It was eerie knowing that it was in his possession, something so entirely personal. No matter how much he mulled it over, he couldn’t come to a conclusion as to why he had drawn him. Or the other faces in the sketchbook, as a matter of fact. Clay likely isn't an art student-- the university wasn’t notable in the arts and it was unlikely that Clay would cross overseas in order to take mediocre art courses. In all, it was pretty creepy. He could ask about it, but it didn’t seem that simple. It would wash away their natural propensity for easy conversation. Too much added tension. He decided he would have to find some way to make Clay show it to him. 

Wednesday morning felt the same as the rest of the week, the weather was cold enough to wear a jumper. The air would make his nose slightly run and his face was numbed by the lowered temperature. The surface of his skin was rosy because of the blood in his body that relocated in an attempt to preserve heat. He shivered more than usual in the mid-autumn season.

Statistics class was close to empty when he arrived, the room was littered with some dedicated students who entered early and prepared for the lecture. George’s eyes bounced from face-to-face searching for Clay. Maybe, he would be sketching and George would be able to bring it up to him whilst in the act.

“George.” Clay’s voice was hushed yet assertive, “Sit by me.” That was exactly what he wanted to hear. 

“Oh, hey! I was actually looking for you,” George smiled and moved to sit next to Clay who was seated nearby.

“Yeah, well you were standing in the middle of the room like an idiot so I figured that much,” his voice was laced with a node of sarcasm.

“I was not,” he giggled a little and emptied what he needed from his bag, glancing when he could to see if he could spot the notebook on the table, “Did you decide where you wanted to go out to later? You didn’t text me.”

“Well, you said you didn’t care, so, I thought we could just walk around and see what’s open, you know?” Clay astutely observed George’s movements.

“Yeah for sure, we can take a walk downtown.” George shifted in his chair uncomfortably at the particularly watchful attention he was receiving. 

“Alright. We can head there after class, it might be sort of early for lunch, though.”

“We can figure out something else to do if you want,” George suggested, “My next class is a night class so I’m free all day.”

“Me too.”

Clay remained mostly quiet for the duration of the lecture, his eyes either centered on his notes or the professor, darting back and forth whilst he scribbled bullet points onto his paper. Whenever he would look the opposite direction, George would steal glances at him. His side profile made it hard to look away; he had a sturdy jaw structure and his complexion was clear. He was more tan than George but still somewhat pale. He was practically perfect. He could only note a few imperfections like the small bump on the bridge of his nose or a few hairs which didn’t lay flat with the rest of his hair. It only made him more  _ real _ . With all the time George spent admiring Clay, he was careful not to be noticed staring. 

“Stop staring at me, George,” 

_ Well shit.  _

Clay’s mouth slowly twisted into a cocky smile, but his gaze remained fixed on the paper in front of him, his eyes only darting up to look at George for a moment. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, barely audibly. 

“It’s fine, I’m only messing with you,” Clay bent over in his chair to reach his bag, pulling out a plastic bottle of water and took a few big sips. His Adam's apple bobbed each time he swallowed as he tipped his head back. 

_ Yeah, you’re fucking messing with me alright. I can’t stop staring. I’m not even gay and I wanna kiss up the side your neck right now... _

“I know...” George turned his head completely away for the rest of the lecture, he could stand to pay attention for once. Time passed slowly and the presence of Clay beside George was something he was constantly aware of. 

“Friday we will be having a quiz over the statistical terms that I went over on Monday; the quiz will be curved, but I expect that you all should have a pretty advanced comprehension of everything so far. Please prepare well, take some extra time on distribution models-- we will be using them a lot in this class.” The students in the lecture hall began to gather their belongings and exit the class, including George and Clay.

“So I was thinking, we could go to the Brighton Pier. It’s cold but I think it would be fun to show you,” George suggested, “You’re new to England so it’s perfect; it’s super, like, touristy.”

“Sure, what time is it now?” Clay was distracted whilst putting his things in his bag.  _ The notebook. He has it with him.  _ George couldn’t forget the mustard-yellow colour of the sketchbook.

“It’s ten-forty-five right now.” George memorized the location of the notebook.  _ Second pocket from the back, next to his laptop. _

“Thanks, let’s go then.” 

The two of them walked out of the hall together. The height difference between them caused George to keep his eyes glued to the floor, it felt awkward to look up at Clay. They kept small conversation as they made their way off of campus. 

“Where are you staying for the semester? I hope not the dorms,” George grimaced, remembering the bad memories he retained from his living-situation first year.

“No, I’m living in an apartment with a friend, it’s like, a five minute walk away,” Clay lifted his hand to the right, across George whilst they walked. He pointed in a direction that was meaningless to George, “It’s that way, behind the dorms.”

“That’s nice, I lived in the dorms right over there, last year,” he paused and pointed in a different direction towards his old dormitories, “What year are you?”

“I’m a sophomore, or second year,” Clay looked older than he was, he had figured he was an upperclassman. 

“Oh really? I am too. But you look older.”

“You look younger,” Clay laughed and slid his hands into the pockets of his oversized jeans, “It doesn’t help that you’re kind-of short, if I’m honest.”

“No. I’m  _ literally  _ average height.” He couldn’t help but smile a little.

Clay scoffed, “That doesn’t mean the  _ average  _ height isn’t short.” 

“No it doesn’t! That makes no sense.” George tilted his head and looked up at the blond.

“Well, you’re short compared to me, anyways.” Clay held eye contact with the shorter boy, daring him to break it, which he did. 

“Obviously.” George felt heat swoop to his face in embarrassment. His height was something he was already self-conscious of-- even if it was only a little bit. 

The brisk air was still around them until they reached an area where the buildings were sparser in number, no longer acting as a shelter from the wind. It tousled the hair on their heads and both looked at each other with matching smiles. George wore a heather grey hoodie that flooded him, each gust of wind pushing it back and forth against his torso. He pulled the hood up over his head and hair, then, tying the strings of the hood into a tight bow. 

“My hair is getting so messed up!” George giggled at the image of Clay who was trying to push away strands of hair that whipped into his eyes, “You’re so lucky you have that hood.”

“You’re so dramatic, it’s just  _ artfully  _ messy now,” George told him. Clay huffed and submitted to the unavoidable wrath of the wind against his hair.

“To be fair, we aren’t even at the pier yet and the wind is  _ this  _ bad. You sure you wanna go today?”

George paused for a moment, Clay looked adorable with his windswept hair and it was silly to see him so disconcerted by the whole experience, fighting off the wind with the backside of his hand. His tense composure was… admittedly hot. 

“We should go, but we can stop by your flat if you want warmer clothes.” George suggested.

“Okay, well, yeah, that’s fine,” Clay didn’t appear thrilled to continue their way to the pier but complied with George regardless. They’d almost reached Clay’s block of flats to stop for clothing when he spoke again, filling the comfortable silence, “Do you want a jacket too? Or a hat? Like, that hoodie can’t be warm.”

George contemplated how to say yes without becoming too eager; he was awfully cold. “That would be nice, but you don’t have to.”

“It’s no worry,” he turned to the boy and offered a warm smile, “My room is this way.” Clay turned a corner as they entered the building and gestured to a new corridor of doorways, leading the two to a room at the end of the hall. 

“What’s your major? I haven’t asked yet, I think.” George asked as Clay fumbled through his bag for a keycard.

“Well, technically, it’s computer software engineering,” he pulled out his keycard and inserted it, “But really, I am more interested in game design and coding. So I’m planning to switch it to computer science. It wouldn't be hard because most of the classes are similar.”

George hummed in response. “That’s cool. I’m a computer science major too, I love programming.” 

The two of them stepped into the flat together. To the left of George was a small kitchen. The white counters were kept tidy, which George noted and secretly but sincerely respected him for. A small breakfast bar connected to the opposite side of the countertops which opened into a cozy living area. The worn furniture had likely belonged to many previous students, but it was covered in a soft navy-blue throw to hide the age. Miscellaneous pieces of decor and personal belongings scattered the space to prove it was lived in. To further prove its habitability, a man laid on the couch, taking up its entirety with his legs. He looked up to make eye-contact with George and then shifted his focus to Clay. He had dark brown eyes and stubble lining his jaw. The man’s hair was a gentle chestnut colour. He was truthfully, quite charming. 

“Nick! I thought you had a class right now?” Clay exited into a different room off of the main area, leaving George to stand awkwardly in the corridor. He yelled out again, without waiting for Nick to respond, “This is George! He’s going with me to the pier!”

“Hey, George.” He altered his gaze to the entryway Clay had disappeared into, “Well, I do have class right now. I just didn’t go.” He chuckled. 

“Why not?! You shouldn’t be skipping.” Clay’s voice revealed frustration and concern. 

“I can’t argue that,” He sighed and shut off the phone in his hand, tossing it aside. 

“You’re such an idiot _. _ ” Clay poked his head out of a room that was likely his bedroom and held up a black coat. He gently asked, “Is this okay?” 

George nodded, “Thank you.” He took a few steps forward to take it and shrugged the coat on over his sweatshirt. Despite his heavy clothing, Clay’s coat fit over him with extra room. He looked tiny in it because he was  _ tiny  _ compared to Clay. 

Clay released an infectious giggle at the sight of George in his clothing, but turned back to his room for more layers. “Nick, talk to George. Be friendly!” 

Nick cleared his throat, “Sorry, um. Where are you from?” 

“I’m from here, I assume you’re from the States?” George shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

“Yeah, Texas. Clay’s from Florida but we both are using the same exchange program; we know each other from online, too.” Nick said. 

“Wow, that’s really cool!” George picked at his nails and tried to remain friendly. 

“Yeah, thanks.” Both of the boys remained quiet for a strained moment. Neither knew what exactly to say. “So. The pier?” 

“Yeah, uh, we were heading there after class, but it’s really windy outside.” George mumbled. He repeatedly pushed up the sleeves of the long coat, but to no avail. It continued to descend down his forearms and flood his figure. 

“What? Dude, speak up.” Nick frowned his lips upward and his eyes flickered. 

“O-oh. I just said we were heading to the pier after our class. We stopped for warmer clothes.” George blurted.

“Okay,” Nick could tell the brunette was uncomfortable but refrained from commenting on it, “I hope you have a good time.”

“Thank you.”

Clay re-entered with a heavy windbreaker on his back and two acrylic-knit hats gripped in his hands, “Here, you pick one, if you want one.”

“What colour are they?” George inquired, without a second thought. 

“ _ What? _ ” Clay let out a harshly sardonic laugh, “What the hell do you mean?” 

George consciously blushed in a vivid shade, “Oh, um, I’m colourblind. It would’ve made more sense if I said that.” 

“Dream! You’re such a jerk,” Nick scolded through a laugh. 

_ Dream? That’s such a weird nickname... Pet-name?  _

“ _ Stop.  _ I’m sorry, George,” Clay’s tone was sincere.

“It’s okay, just tell me the colour, though,” he uneasily laughed to ease the tense energy that had enveloped the conversation. He made it awkward.

“This one is pink, sort of a dusty-rose shade,” he switched the order of the hats, showing the other one to him in a better light-- as if that would help, “And this one is dark green.”

George responded with a contemplative hum, “I’ll wear the pink one.”

“Aww, so cute, Georgie,” Clay teased and stretched the fabric of the hat over George’s head. George internally shivered at the close brush of his hands against the sides of his scalp. 

“ _ Stoppp. _ ” His rebuttal was a paradox to the smile that had etched itself onto his face and his brightened eyes. 

George quickly snatched the dark green hat from Clay’s grasp, teetering on the toes of his feet to reach his head and mimic his actions. Jokingly, George pulled it over Clay's eyes, hiding the glint of self-satisfaction that had resonated there. 

“Hey!” Clay swatted away his lingering hands, “Let’s go now.”

Nick shook his head at the two boys who were standing in the kitchen, “Get out of here with whatever  _ that  _ is.” 

Both George and Clay shared a faint, incipient blush on their faces and hurried out of the apartment. They both knew the shared moment wasn’t  _ nothing. _ But still, George knew Clay would see him as the crying boy on the bus bench-- a pathetic wreck who needed fixing. Untethered and insecure. How could he truly know the intentions behind the forming friendship when it had begun in such an dishonest and unconventional way? They were both hiding secrets they only knew the half of. Strangely, it only made George want to get closer.

Brighton Pier was a short walk away from the building and the pair spent most of the time getting to know each other more on the way there-- where they grew up, their favorite films and foods, not what Clay had told him he wanted to know. What he was expected to open up about. 

As they neared the water, the wind became relentless. The water below the sturdy pier gathered in large waves that rolled from dark hues into white foamy crests. Endlessly, they battered the foundation of the pier; it starkly contrasted the colourful signs and lights that adorned the pier above.  _ BRIGHTON PALACE PIER.  _

“This is  _ not  _ what I expected,” Clay stated.

“Well, what did you expect?”

Clay turned to George and laughed, “If I’m honest, like, I thought it was going to be some dingy pier with bird shit everywhere.”

“You’re definitely right about the bird shit.” George scrunched his nose at the flocks of seagulls littering the beach and walkways.

The two shared a good-natured laugh. “No, but  _ seriously _ ,” Clay was out of breath yet his voice remained still soft and cool, “this place is literally a fucking amusement park.”

“ _ Clay _ . This place is well-known and, well,  _ touristy.  _ I figured you’d know what I meant by ‘the pier.’” George retorted. He felt a little conflicted; he couldn’t distinguish whether Clay was excited or indifferent. He hoped for the former.

“I know. It’s a good surprise. There’s just… so much to do, how are we going to have time? Like  _ look, _ ” Clay pointed to an array of signs, “There’s an arcade, a restaurant, like, a  _ million _ fairground rides, and-”

“Oh my  _ God. Shut up. _ We can literally just walk around if you want, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.” George playfully shoved Clay’s shoulder as they walked. 

“We can LIT-UH-RUH-LEE~  _ you  _ shut up.” Clay mocked his accent in retaliation. 

George would’ve been embarrassed if anyone else had said this, but instead, it warmed his chest a little bit. The teasing wasn’t anything like the interactions he’d had with friends in the past. While it wasn’t  _ his  _ idea of normal, he wanted it to be. This is what he felt was missing: a friend. 

The pair doubled-over in a fit of wheezes and soon enough they had moved on and began to stroll around the waterfront. 

“It’s really empty because of the weather so we don’t have to wait in lines. Shall we ride a few rides?”

“That’s true,” Clay paused, “but this is nice too. Just walking.” 

“I think so too, but It’d be funny to see you scream like a baby on a rollercoaster.” George’s lips twisted into a devious grin. 

“Pfft.  _ Please.”  _ Clay’s words were short and an obvious deflection. Anyone else would have challenged him to ride the biggest and fastest rides only to prove him wrong. 

“I’m totally right.” 

“No, you’re not,” Clay was less joking, “I just don’t want to.”

George felt a twang of regret in his chest. He was being such a jerk. Clay probably didn’t even want to be here in the cold, in an amusement park when he just asked to get lunch.

“I’m.. sorry.” His voice was meek. Maybe George was overreacting to Clay’s tone, but he felt guilty for making him come here. If he had never helped him through that panic attack, he wouldn’t feel obligated to hang around him.

_ He shouldn’t have to be here. He doesn’t really want to be.  _

“Okay.. don’t make fun of me.” Clay fidgeted with his hands, “I don’t want to ride the roller coasters because I’m afraid of heights.” He sheepishly admitted. 

_ I’m definitely overthinking this.  _

George offered a sympathetic smile, “Really? I wouldn’t have thought of you to be.”

“I have been ever since I was little,” Clay giggled as he remembered an old memory, “One time, my parents had tried to convince me so hard to ride a roller coaster and they literally dragged me— like  _ physically  _ picked me up to try to get me to ride it with them. But I was kicking and screaming and didn’t let them.” George giggled imagining Clay as a boy stubbornly refusing to comply with his parents. “So I’ve never rode a roller coaster in my life.”

“Never?” 

“Never.”

George snorted, “You’re such a baby.”

“At least I’d be tall enough to reach the height limit if I wanted to ride one.”

“Shut up.” George averted his eyes and adjusted the sleeves of his coat. 

Time passed quickly and conversation flowed. Eventually, they entered the arcade to indulge in some games; it certainly showcased Clay’s competitive side. 

“I bet you twenty dollars that I beat you on street fighter,” Clay gambled. And there was nothing to do but accept the offer. 

“What is that, like fifteen pounds?”

“Why do you think I’d know?” Clay chuckled. 

George slid the twenty pence coins in the old machine, bringing it to life. The two were tucked in a corner away from the bustle of families on claw machines and coin-pushers. George gazed at Clay before focusing his energy into the game. The blinking arcade lights brightly flashed over his face in an array of colours. His lips were set in a brazen smile and he cracked his knuckles before setting his hands on the joystick. George couldn’t help but melt. 

“I’m about to absolutely clap your shit, George.” Clay arrogantly laughed after the fact. 

_ What the fuck. _

“Clay!” George’s mouth fell open in disbelief, “You’re so  _ toxic _ .”

“Oh come on,” he smirked and rolled his eyes, “that wasn’t even toxic.”

“Whatever.” George riposted, “just start the game and you can prove how great you are.” 

_ KO!  _

_ KO! _

_ KO! _

“How do you keep winning so easily!?” George slammed his hands on the console in exasperation. “I can’t even get any good hits in before you combo me to death!”

“That’s because you’re so predictable.” He explained almost courteously, “You go in with the same strat every time and all at once. You could do better if you wait and block attacks too. You can block by holding back on the joystick; do this.”

Clay grabbed George’s wrist to show him where he should place his hands on the controls to block, “Just pull away from your opponent.”

“Yeah- yeah, I got it,” George stammered. Clay’s touch lingered and he remained still behind George, his breath red hot on the parts of his ear left uncovered by the hat. He pulled away and Clay’s face slowly grew into a beaming grin.

“You gotta pay up.”

He groaned, “How about this, I’ll buy lunch and we’ll call it even?”  
“That sounds perfect, Georgie.” Clay teased.

Clay followed George to a small strip of food kiosks where they ordered a portion of fish and chips to split. They wandered away from the scattered groups of people and stood alone together against the railing. Clay leaned on the railing with his elbows and munched on the dish, picking chips out of the basket one at a time. 

_ These are so greasy... I’ll just let him eat most of it.  _

George bit into a chip and slightly grimaced. He slowly swallowed and tried to keep his dissatisfaction to himself. Clay didn’t glance at him for a long time, his gaze was affixed at the imposing waves below. The constant sound of the water overlaid the whistling of the wind; it was relaxing and the two enjoyed it without interruption for a beautiful moment. 

George couldn’t identify if Clay felt tense within the moment, though. He wished he knew what the boy was thinking. He didn’t know what they were to each other-- he didn’t want to ask either. George felt so close to spilling everything to him, a drop of dew dangerously poised at the tip of a leaf. Heavily weighed down by a natural force. 

Clay softly spoke up, “Your nose is so rosy.”

George hadn’t realized he was being watched. “Oh- yeah..”

“It’s cute,” he murmured to himself. 

“Clay?” George asked.

“Yeah?”

“I wanna ask you something.” He couldn’t keep eye-contact and instead stared towards the water.

“Ask away.” 

“I know you said that you wanted to know me... differently.” He inhaled sharply and screwed his eyes shut. “But, I don’t understand how- I don’t understand  _ why  _ you want to. Why are we just pretending like we know each other? We can’t keep it up forever. I feel like you're not honest with me.” The bead of dew slipped further down the spine of the frond.

Clay winced. “What am I not honest about? Did something happen to make you upset with me?”

“ _ No.”  _ George grew frustrated with himself. “Forget it.”

“Wait, no. Why don’t you trust me?” Clay grasped his wrists firmly to hold him in place.

“I don’t understand your intentions, Clay.” A rush of emotion flooded over his face, his voice cracked, “Why do you just  _ care _ ?”

_ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. _

His brow furrowed. “George…” He reached out to grab him into a hug, but he lurched a step back and shakily sighed. “George. I don’t understand you either. Something’s bothering you and I’m just trying to help.” 

Clay ran a hand through his hair and began again in the absence of George’s response. “What do you want to know?”

“...What?” George sniffled- not from tears but rather from the cold.

“If you don’t think I’m  _ honest  _ with you, ask me something you want to know,” He prompted.

_ Ask him.  _

“Well.” He shot a glance at Clay; He couldn’t spit out the question. 

_ Don’t ask him, you’re not supposed to know. _

“Why..” He hesitated. “Why do you have that drawing, Clay.” 

The dew trickled off the edge, the existing stress on the leaf gone. Nevertheless, it was only in vain, making space to invite newer droplets to flow the same course and collect even bigger. 

His eyes grew wide. “Let me explain…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! I had fun writing this chapter, it was sort of hard to make George seem so suspicious of Clay's artwork, but I have a more in-depth explanation of what's going on with that in the next chapter.   
> Feel free to comment anything at all!! I'll almost definitely respond.  
> Take care! <3


	3. Sellin' What You Buy, Buy, Buy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay explains the drawing... kind of. Then, George meets Quackity and gets invited to a party LMAO. Quite a lot happens, I suppose...
> 
> BTW!! at the party, the girls' names are kinda irrelevant, I just named them bc I wanted to lol. They aren't going to be significant characters in the future :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry this chapter took so long to get posted!! I haven't been able to find a lot of time to write and I've just been super stressed lately, so sorry if this isn't my best work.  
> I cannot express how happy it makes me to read comments or even see that you have left kudos--it means a lot, truly.  
> I hope you are doing well, make sure you take care of yourself. LOVE U <3

“Let me explain…” 

“Yeah. Please do.” George hugged his arms around himself. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask about the sketch, but it felt like a bigger mistake to keep it to himself.

“How do you even know about it? Did you go through my stuff?” Clay’s voice bordered the line between angry and apologetic. 

He should have just brought it up sooner, he knew he’d have been less angry if he asked that day. George had been just as dishonest with him. 

“I saw it Monday…” Clay’s gaze turned cold and snapped George’s composure as easily as glass. “You were sketching in class, I was behind you.”

“Is this why you’re even here today?! You really only came with me to ask that, didn’t you,” He snapped bitterly.

“No-” Clay pulled off his bag and took out the notebook whilst George talked, “-Of course not. It’s why I approached you after class but It’s not why I came with you.” 

Clay leafed through the pages with his thumb. He seemed to be letting his words drift by without adding anything. He eventually said, “I would have told you if you just asked then, I bet you were creeped out.” 

_So he’s not angry? I don’t understand._

“Are you mad?” George asked cautiously. Clay opened the lined notebook but not to the page of George.

“No, I’m not mad.” He didn’t quite believe it, he had all the reason to be. “This is just a lot to explain.”

“Well, It’s not even weird that you drew me; it’s weird that you drew me, like, _that_ \- it’s the way you drew me,” he explained, “It seems personal.” 

George felt as if his words were rooted in delusion. But, they didn’t fall flat. He had reason to feel so exploited if Clay wasn’t treating him as if he was overreacting.

Clay winced. “I’m sorry... Here, I can show you more of them while I explain-” he began to steadily flip the pages.

“Jesus, is this like, every person you’ve met?” George joked, there were almost no empty pages. All were filled with chicken scrawl and artistically stylistic portraits-- each a little unstructured in a unique way. 

“Not in this one, I have a bunch more at home.” George was taken aback. 

“ _What?_ What are these for?”

“Stop interrupting me if you want me to explain,” Clay sighed. “It’s kind of embarrassing, can you promise me that you won’t make fun of me?” Clay bit his lip.

“I can’t promise you anything.” The words were laced with a crude undertone that came out harsher than he meant them to.

“Then maybe you don’t deserve an explanation from me.” 

The interaction between them didn’t seem friendly between them anymore. In fact, it felt cold and defensive. Clay’s words no longer warmly reverberated in his head and made him lightheaded; his words felt callous. They listened to the waves for another extended moment.

George burst the bubble of tension, “I don't, really. I can’t promise that I won’t judge you, but I will hear you out if you do tell me.” 

He parted his lips, slowly confessing, “I have some, well, anxieties…” 

“I still don’t understand,” George replied blankly. 

“Like, about my identity.” George’s brow furrowed, it somehow made less sense. 

“Your identity?” George had to hold back a nervous laugh. “Why?”

“Well, I’m not sure I want to tell you right now…” Clay pulled on his fingers and stared holes into the open sketchbook. “I’ve drawn every single person who has heard my voice and seen my face within the past few years. It’s so I can keep track of who knows who I am.” He bent the corner of the page back and forth between his fingers.

George didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t harshly judge his irrationality and paranoia. This wasn’t normal behavior but George wasn’t known for ‘normal’ behavior either. Maybe they could both keep their own unreasonable habits. Whatever. “Who is this?” George grazed a finger over the page. 

“Um. This was a bagger at the grocery store, I don’t remember them very well so it looks sort of rushed-” He turned the page quickly. “-This one is of my friend, Karl.” 

“This is really good.” He murmured. While it was a strange way to cope with anxiety, it was obvious that Clay was very talented. Life blossomed from the pages into human emotion. Karl’s eyes glimmered beneath brown tufts and complemented his bright smile. “What’s he like?” 

Clay hummed. “He’s super energetic and easygoing; one of my closest friends. Maybe you can meet him sometime.”

George nodded. “Maybe.” He had more he wanted to ask and to say, but it seemed out of place. He knew there was something more to the story but he had no intention of digging up something like past trauma-- Clay meant no harm in the first place despite his wall of defense that surrounded the confession. “I’m going to head home. I’m sorry if I misjudged you or anything…”

The blond shut the spiral bound notebook and his face set in a frown. “No, it’s fine. I can explain it better some other time...” His voice trailed off in a similar fashion.

The two of them walked off of the pier, Clay absentmindedly threw away the fish and chips in a bin and they continued in the direction of their homes in silence before diverging. The air between them was tinged with melancholy and unspoken words. A wonderful afternoon had ended in an irritating gloom. Before leaving completely, they faced one another for a final time.

Clay was obviously absent from the moment. George hated seeing his bright eyes glazed over by something he had brought up. 

_What kind of a person am I for pestering him over something so insignificant?_

“I-” George faltered. “-I’m sorry.” 

“Why? I forgive you.” Clay’s face was unreadable, maybe he had lied. 

“I don’t know,” he bit his lip, “I just finally felt like we had this fresh start and I already fucked it up. I really like you and this was just supposed to be a _normal_ day. I couldn’t just let myself trust you and I made your drawing a big deal for no reason. I don’t want you to see me as just some pitiful and judging and pathetic person who-”

“ _George._ ” Clay’s face visibly softened. “It’s okay, I promise. I don’t blame you for being skeptical, It’s okay.” 

George exhaled rigidly and his throat and nose started to slightly burn. He croaked, “I’m sorry, I’m..” He couldn’t release any more words before his voice cracked.

“It’s okay, Georgie.” Clay embraced him tightly, rubbing gentle circles on his back. He pulled his hands under the pink beanie on George’s head and ran his hands through his hair. Clay tucked him under his chin and let him relax onto his chest, quickly unstiffening. 

The brunette sniffled, “I don’t know why I’m so _emotional.”_ They both laughed slightly. 

“I get it, don’t worry about it.” It was annoying how accepting Clay was-- he didn’t deserve to be blindly trusted-- it wasn’t normal. Nonetheless, George didn’t attempt to pull away from the warmth of his body. Instead, he stood there clinging to Clay in a gentle sway as his breath evened out for a beatific moment. 

“I should go.” George spoke into Clay’s coat, sending warm vibrations through his torso.

“What?” He asked gently.

George pulled away and repeated himself, “I should go.” He hoped his eyes weren’t too red.

“Oh, yeah, right, m'kay.” 

George rarely found himself in moments where he felt security these days, but Clay’s soft gaze automatically soothed him. 

“I’ll see you later?” George asked hopefully.

“Of course.”

George wiped his nose with the backside of his hand and walked to the bus-stop to catch a ride home. He felt undecidedly about the day; it had been one of the best and the most stressful in quite a while. He ultimately clung to the warm moments they had shared in the early afternoon. Gentle touches and tender smiles had made his mind dizzy. George didn’t know what he wanted anymore. 

_It’s all okay. I can figure it out._

-=+=-

Caffeine was the only thing keeping George going by the end of the week. He and his coffee mug spent much of their time laboring over homework and long textbook pages. Two days had passed since his afternoon with Clay and he hadn’t been in touch since. Something inside told him that some space wouldn’t hurt them (maybe it was the reminder of the existence of his long overdue assignments). When George took his statistics test, the two sat silently next to one another in the lecture hall. Not a single word exchanged, only guilty glances and awkward coughs after their elbows brushed. He was sure he didn’t get good marks on that test.

Friday classes were long and it was hard for George to pay close attention. Particularly due to the students next to him in his computer programming class that annoyed the hell out of him. The group of students were dividing responsibilities for buying alcohol and other ‘party favors’ for a party for that night. 

“Dude, I said Luke is bringing the pot. _Not_ me.” The guy whisper-scolded another boy.

“Jesus Christ, it doesn’t matter. What is Nick bringing then anyways?”

“I don’t know, text him. Probably some cheap beer like he always brings.” The group scoffed at the apparently accurate remark. “No one even touches his shit.”

_So Nick is going to a party? I hope Clay doesn’t party too. He seems better than that…_

“And Clay is bringing...?” _Of course he is bringing something._

“He isn’t bringing anything. He bought a lot last time.”

“He’ll be there, right?”

“Obviously,” he snorted.

The idea of Clay getting drunk and high at a party without him made him feel… jealous. George didn’t want to party, as he'd never been to one, but when he imagined Clay grinding against bleached-blond, fake-tanned girls under flashing lights, it sent a shiver down his spine. He envisioned Clay shotgunning a slick, sweaty beer can whilst his friends cheered him on. Girls would flirt and giggle excessively to try to catch a night without strings attached. He’d rather be the one there to flirt. If he’d even be interested in a guy.

He had zoned out and been staring directly at the group. “Um. Do you need something, man?” 

_This is so embarrassing holy fuck._ “No- no my bad.” He averted his eyes and felt heat creep to his cheeks. 

“Do you want to come to the party or something? Anyone who wants to come is invited.” The man who was talking to him had dark, intense, keen eyes and wore a mischievous smile with pride. Not the kind of people George would hang around, but who _did_ he hang around? Would it be so bad to have a night meeting new people? It couldn’t be so bad if Clay was going to be there. 

“Um, I don’t know…” George’s voice flaked away; he wasn’t quite convinced.

“I’m Alex, who are you? Me and my friends are new.” Alex leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms up, twisting his voice as he reclined. 

_He’s not a friend to me. I need to go home, do my shit, and go to bed. I am not introducing myself to some fucking hedonist who only wants-_

“I’m George.” George had been surprising himself a lot lately. He tagged on, “I don’t know if I’ll go but what’s the address?” 

Alex snorted and slammed forward in his chair, causing a loud scraping noise. He darted a hand across George to grab a stack of post-it-notes that he had been using during class and proceeded to copy the address for the party.

He muttered, “ _Tiene mucho sentido, porque eres un puto perdedor.”_ If George wasn’t already glowing hot, he sure was now-- despite not knowing an inch of Spanish. “I think you’ll go. I hope so, you look like you need to be corrupted a little.” 

He ignored the comment. “What did you say?” 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He slid the post-it-notes back to George and continued his conversation with his friends, earning hasty glares from the professor and students alike. The smudged pen ink was clear enough to make out against bright yellow.

_Are you serious?_

The address was the same street, same building, different floor. It was two different flats that would be open for the crowd to meander through. Even if George decided not to go to the party, he’d be wondering what his night would have been like if he did attend, whilst enduring the sounds of the bass-boosted music and cheers through the floor. Fundamentally, it was up to him whether or not his night would be filled with bitter regret alone in his room or bitter, stale beer beside Clay. But, he was getting addicted to chasing that fuzzy feeling Clay left resonating through his bones. At moments, he made him forget the world, his problems, and it made him weightless; it turned him invincible. Despite the nerves and the embarrassment that followed their conversations, George was itching to catch another moment together with him. He hadn’t ever had a person make him so deliriously happy for one minute and anxious and desperate the next.

Back home at his flat that night, he heard the chatter and movement of people filtering inside beginning around ten at night. This was a signal for him to decide if it would be now or never. George ran a shaky hand through his hair and stood up from the sofa, making his way to his room to find something to wear. He considered which shirts would absorb more gross stains versus one another, ultimately choosing a baggy, white shirt branded in black font. It was rather boring, but he would be staying out of the limelight and it could be disposed of if it got stained. He paired it with light-grey and blue skinny-fit plaid pants which cuffed at the bottom to reveal his black high-top shoes. All together, it was a nice outfit, but the mirror lied to him. 

“Fuck it. It’s fine.” He clipped a necklace behind his head and left his flat before he could change his mind. Goosebumps raced across his forearms and down his spine, from nerves rather than the cool air. His mind felt jittery and disquieted; he didn’t know what exactly to expect. George descended down the stairwell with quick feet. 

_This is so stupid._

He fumbled with the cold door handle that would lead out of the stairwell.

_This is so stupid._

But, perhaps it was time to let go of his blind-obedience to arbitrary, unspoken rules and expectations he had set for himself. Maybe he needed to dive into something, to chase after something invigorating. Maybe he was allowed to need something beyond stale relationships; instead, to crave real, palpable love.

_This is so stupid._

_Maybe._

George opened the door, taking steps towards the party as if following a magnetic force. A few faces grinned at him in the hallway, simply excited for a good time. 

He could have a good time.

Immediately after entering the party, the words of the song sharpened and were clearer. The clarity of sound made his heart speed up and his face creep into a huge smile. People seemed to tower over him and brush into him as soon as he arrived, sucking him into the crowd like a slow, ineluctable tide. His nerves were suppressed for now, only the music on his mind.

“Oh my _God.”_ A large hand slapped his back _so_ painfully hard. George stumbled forward slightly. “Geooorge! You came.” He recognized the slurred voice as Alex’s. 

“Yea-yeah. I did.” George laughed a little.

“Let me get you a drink!” Alex lit a fire under George’s unconstrained mindset of the night. He firmly gripped George’s forearm to a point where it vaguely hurt as they went to the ‘bar'. The ‘bar’ was a lineup of liquor and punch-bowls on card tables, surrounded with coolers full of more drinks. And of course, plastic cups were stacked in bulk.

“Here!” Alex shouted over the music.

“What is this?” George scrunched his nose as he smelled the drink.

“Jungle Juice! You’ll _love_ it.” Alex sipped his own beverage in an identical, sweaty, plastic cup. “It’s very _fruity_ ,” He laughed.

At this point, he decided he didn’t like Alex very much. “But what’s in it?” George demanded. 

“Uh, it’s mixed with a shit ton of stuff,” he continued, seeing as George hadn’t lifted his cup at all, “I made it with a whole bottle of peach schnapps, vodka, rum, tequila, blue curaçao, and _sooo_ much fruit juice.” 

George narrowed his eyes. “Alright.” The bitter bite of alcohol was easily overpowered by the fresh flavors of peach, strawberries, pineapple, and lemon. Almost close to refreshing.

Alex chuckled, “Don’t drink too much, man.”

The glass was half-empty already. Or still half-full, depending how you look at it.

George hadn’t expected a party to be like this. There weren’t flashing lights or shirtless chicks on counters. Or Clay, with said ‘shirtless chicks’ hanging off of him. The night was melting away his fear of consequence and easing his anxieties. And it was still very young.

Alex began to leave, but George queried, “Alex, have you seen Clay?” 

“How do _you_ know Clay?” he turned and scoffed, “he is in the other flat across the hall.”

George slumped his shoulders, “Thanks.” It was a transparently sarcastic response.

He made precise movements through the crowd and to the other flat. A game of beer pong was set up on a dining table and there were small groups of people talking, laughing, smoking, and dancing. He didn’t recognize a single face but he was approached by a girl.

“Oh my, God. You skate, don’t you?” Her tone was nasally. She featherily brushed a hand onto George’s chest and flashed her teeth in a grin. 

“No…?” He felt smaller under the attention. 

“Get over here, Becca!” She enthusiastically ushered another girl over with a flapping of her hand. “Doesn’t he _totally_ look like a skater boy.”

“No way, yeah! You have the eye-bag-thing going on, it’s fucking hot. You look like a British Timothée Chalamet.” The two burst into a fit of giggles. 

George grimaced and scrunched his nose. He doesn’t even resemble Timothée Chalamet a little bit. He emptied the cup in his hand, leaving a sweet, sensational coating on the walls of his throat. 

“Hey, _Timothée_. Want to play a game with us?” 

“I’m good, no thanks,” he replied.

One of the girls jutted out her bottom lip in a pout, “Pretty please? Just truth or dare.”

_Well, I don’t have an excuse..._

“Sure-” he laughed jovially, “-I’ll play for a little.”

He'd be playing closely with fire. He hadn't come to a party to meet these people, he had come to find Clay, which had slipped his mind as easily as the cool alcohol that dripped down his throat. Nonetheless, this was new and exciting. 

“Yay!!” The girls grabbed his arms to pull him to a sofa in the corner where more people were gathered. 

“Wait a minute!” His drink was yanked from his hand. “Let me go refill your drink.” 

She scurried across the hall before he could lodge a protest. The other girl continued to guide them to a seat, scooching herself as close as she could on the sofa. Her hand laid lazily on his knee. 

“Oh my God, _he's so cute,_ " she hissed between cupped palms, in a failure of a whisper, "What’s his name, Claire?"

“Yeah, what’s your name again?” Another girl asked. 

“I’m George.” The original girl returned with his drink, filled to the brim with a much needed (and graciously accepted) sweet, sweet intoxicant. 

“Okay, _George,_ let’s play: truth or dare?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for readinggg!! Please let me know what you think in the comments (critique, typos, theories, and anything else is welcome!!).  
> You can probably start to see what's going on with the drawings Dream has; it will definitely play out more. Also, sorry this was so fucking dialogue heavy, holy shit.  
> I also started a new fic, "Dumb Ways to Die" if you are interested :)  
> AND, lastly, I made a twitter? Seriously, I don't have a clue how to navigate it all yet, but if you'd like to chat or send me something:  
> https://twitter.com/cashflochlo  
> Love youuu <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really really appreciate it. Feel free to leave criticism and/or suggestions!  
> Love you! <3


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